Is it just me or...

When Paul from the Fraternal Order of Police calls do you tend to be nicer to him than any other telemarketer that would have the nerve to call at 6:30pm? The other suspects would barely even get through the mispronunciation of my name before I stated my distaste for calls during the dinner hour (but really I have a distaste for them at ALL hours), but when Paul calls, I feel like I need to be polite.

It went something like this...

Mrs. Kanoo?

Uh, I guess

This is Paul from the Fraternal Order of Police (aka Telemarketing City, I get paid $5/hour to make these calls) and first we would like to remind you and your family to never drink and drive. (Especially after you have spent a night with friends from your pre-kids days, and you think that one last glass of red wine isn't going to matter and we have that road block set up right on the corner of you neighborhood.)

OK...now he has my attention.

So Mrs. Kanoo, it is in these difficult time that we really need your help.

Oh Paul, you had me and then lost me again SO quickly. We don't have any money and if we did...well, I just won't go there. But I can't just hang up on him...can I? He's from THE Fraternal Order of Police.

Paul...I interrupt...I really appreciate you calling but...I am home alone with two kids trying to wrangle them in the bath, so it is a really bad time. (a really bad time because see, really I'm downstairs enjoying a glass of wine while my husband does all the heavy lifting in the bath tonight)

Sure thing ma'am, have a nice night. (I know your address, your phone, your family statistics...don't even bother trying to call 911...we know what a freak you are when it comes to emergencies.)

Am I right, or am I right?

A follow up

My husband is wonderful. Really. I mean that. But that doesn't mean a girl can't poke some fun every once in a while. And while he doesn't exactly read my blog, enough of our family reads it and heckled him on his last feeble attempt to give me some free time that you think he might have learned his lesson.

Or not.

Last weekend, at my in-laws house at the beach, I was given two options and allowed to choose which one I wanted:

Honey, he said with a giant smile on his face how about I give the kids a bath and you can just deal with the cable guy.

And in case you are someone like say...my mom...who always gives the person the benefit of the doubt (in this case, assuming that he is trying to strike a deal to his advantage). It was QUITE clear that he thought he was doing me a HUGE favor by giving the kids a bath while allowing me to follow the cable guy around the house trying to figure out why none of the TV's worked only to figure out that the power cords on ALL the cable boxes weren't working (only in New Jersey and only with Comcast!). So you know what I said?

Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather give the kids a bath. Wait...did I really just say that? Must be the Jersey sea air that is making me a bit crazy...and him too for that matter!

Urghh ER

We've been to the ER a fair amount of times with our boy. And let me tell you, I don't do very well when looking crisis right in the eye. I cry, I hyperventilate, then I find my husband and hope he can deal.

First, there was the time that a piggy bank mysterious feel from the sky and donked him in the head. ** He had a cut on his head, it bled...it was his head...but in hindsight I should have known that it wasn't life threatening (in fact I should have known that a good old band aid would probably have done the job). So what do I do? Yup...I called 911. And as I was talking to the nice lady on the other end of the line and getting frustrated that all she wanted to know was if I needed an ambulance while I only wanted her to tell me if the pediatrician gave stitches, I took a few breaths, stopped bawling my eyes out, and realized I was over reacting just a wee-bit.

And then there was the time that he fell at the pool and we thought he broke his leg. That was...of course...until the nurse on the phone was asking me if he could put pressure on his foot as my boy was hopping on one foot (the injured foot) around the kitchen. So, you guessed it, no broken leg either.

So this weekend, our reaction to our little girl taking a tumble should come as no surprise. Don't get me wrong, the tumble she took was no joke. Head over heals, head bumping along the way, 15 steps down, and to add insult to injury, it was on yellow shag carpeting from 1980. I can't even accurately tell you what happened from there, I just know she had a bump the size of a large egg on her head and before I could say Natasha Richardson, we were in the car to the ER. But also in typical fashion, by the time we got to the ER we recognized that we were over-reacting a bit. And as we looked a the full waiting room, we wondered just how much we were over-reacting. And by they time the got us back to a "room" to see the Doctor, I think it is safe to say we knew she wasn't really hurt. Otherwise, I can't imagine we would have been taking pictures.

Long story short, she's fine and I'm getting better.

As we were driving home, my husband applauded me for not crying. I think he just didn't see the tears streaming down my face once the whole ordeal was over.

**maybe, just maybe, the true story is that I placed the piggy bank on top of the changing table and it rolled off and smacked the poor boy right in his big fat noggin.